a fiesta of charms

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
were pre wall days and such things were more clandestine than
they were now... Stopping two men, they all seems to walk as if
they had made plans long before... up into an apartment ten
minutes from the High Street, where I sat to eat two sausages, I
can never eat one sausage as I start to feel like there is more to
the story... perhaps one sausage is too abrupt...
...an hour or so later she was walking past a playground,
kids on swings, playing with balls, the detritus of cum on the tip
of her forehead against the hair on the right side...
...Patrice would always mention, and in particular that
same night that she would spend most weekends at the cabin I
already knew of. Of course, but the reason caused a tenure of
confusion, that confiscated a sense of liberation, or maybe in
hindsight it is liberation personified... death, life, sex, a history of
murder...
Diary One [4.25pm]
...I want to dispel a myth with this death of April, because it gnaws on
me, but it’s simply that danger is not just a male oriented thing, and it
simply isn’t... if you check the statistics many women fall prey to crimes
executed by other women... and so this is the case...
Fatal Extravagance
...the feeling mounted that she would arrive back that
Tuesday, usually in the same mood... melancholic or perturbed
by a throb, that I once noticed by a little blood on the neck, a
bright clarity to it that seemed to remind of a butcher or cattle...
...she spent that Tuesday evening with Clarise arguing
about Wittengstein, although I failed to decipher much else, her
history of working for the secret services was still, then, a secret,
along with her confliction of whether she was German or
Russian, although like her accent, this seemed to change as
fluidly as her knickers... she was particularly fond of cleanliness,
gloves, mostly black, although a few weeks prior a pair of yellow
gloves Patrice called OJ’s gloves... her retort that OJ was a rather
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